


Return Home

by willowthorn



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowthorn/pseuds/willowthorn
Summary: After the theft of a mask, unusual things start happening.
Relationships: Ishikawa Goemon XIII/Jigen Daisuke/Arsène Lupin III/Mine Fujiko
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by @bumbleshark_art https://twitter.com/bumbleshark_art/status/1279273190070669312?s=21

Time is a strange thing. He can mark the trees rolling by as they drive through the countryside, memory layering the last time he rolled through here, the same car under him, the same book folded in his lap. The music is different. His hair is shorter at the moment, tucked behind one ear as the rest skirts his jawline. There are a few things that are new - the traditional style house tucked in the crook of the hills was not here last time they had driven through.

______/_____

They are human. The reminder of it is a painful twisting in his gut. Lupin had planned first for a hunt, a heist, a chance to steal away into the night, to feel that rush in their blood and that clarity more addictive than any drug, any woman, any man. The four of them converge on the mark like hungry ghosts. They walk away feeling like the living dead.

—-/

There comes a time when he first travels by private plane. He is not young, he is not old. He sits in the back, narrow window framing landscapes as they fall away. The red plane rumbles below, barely bigger than the fiat as it climbs. It is not his first time flying ever, but the sensations hold differently in the cramped confines. There is the lurch of gravity remembered by his inner ear, a nausea in his gut that settles right beside his carefully concealed excitement. Jigen and Lupin both have headsets on, and their bonds are fresh enough that Jigen looks strange without his hat. 

__/______

The sound of Jigen’s voice is husky in his ear. It rumbles through him, all smoke and flick-lock heat. He doesn’t need to hear the words clearly to understand the meaning, to understand the rough hands pushing against the fabric over his chest. 

_____/____

He keeps going, he keeps going, he keeps going. Blood runs down his arm. Blood runs down Jigen’s stomach. The sound of guns and hounds bark at their heels. 

He keeps going.

___________

He meets other people, sometimes. Two-bit thieves and famous assassins. He knows them all by name. It feels like there’s nothing to compare anymore. He associates with the best. He drinks with one of the greatest minds in history, criminal or otherwise. He gets sushi with the most loyal of the dead-eyes, the coolest quick-shot still surviving. He helps the most notable woman never known pick out her stilettos. She values his opinion when it comes to the elegant daggers, the steel and workmanship. He assumes Lupin values his skills, his dedication to each and every task. Jigen lets him know exactly what he values in him through touch, through presence, through whiskey-touched word. 

Other people are… interesting. He feels a world removed at best. And it is frustrating sometimes, to see others and think what it might be like, to be more like them and less like himself. 

\----  
He stares at the mask hanging on the wall, bright museum lights painting the static features into stark relief. At a glance, it looks to be frowning. Another, and it is a painted smile that greets him. He’s supposed to be guarding the doors, but as Lupin fiddles with the alarm system, he finds himself distracted.

It was far from the first mask he had seen. Noh masks were designed to act like this, designed to change with the slightest difference in angle and lighting. But there’s a chill at the back of his neck that he does not trust.

—/——

Glass shatters next to his ear, glances his shoulder. Jigen bites a curse, pulls his gun. Minutes later, Goemon feels the pressure of his hands, an attempt to stop the bleeding.

__-

The mask didn’t want to be stolen. 

He’s convinced of this as he watches stitches pull through Jigen’s skin, Fujiko still pale and sweaty and scared. Lupin will shrug it all off later, of course, but the vinyl gloves he wears are bloody and there’s a pinched look to his face. The mask stares at them. The mask smiles, and does not move. 

Jigen voices his pain, a defeated moan as Lupin’s fingers slip. Nothing more happens for a week. 

____

Lupin loves like a coyote. It’s almost wolfish, but playful instead of greedy. His fingers dance down Goemon’s spine, playing out a tune Goemon does not recognize. 

_____/

They’re together in the living room of an old estate, tatami mats warm in the summer sun. Jigen sleeps, much the same as his wounds heal. The colour has returned to his skin, and though the stitches are ugly as they scab and heal, there’s no sign of infection. 

Lupin is playing, watching the mask move as he shifts it slowly in his hands. They’re waiting for their american buyer, waiting for the heat to die down just a little bit. Cicadas groan in the trees surrounding them. Lupin has the mask up to his face, arms reaching out. He makes cartoonish noises, groaning like a ghost as he crawls towards Goemon on his knees.

“Stop it, fool.” Goemon looks away, and Lupin laughs, clear as a bell. A bit higher than normal, a lingering sound. 

_____

They eat together, bent over a low table. They eat in comfortable silence, and Goemon lets the taste linger on his tongue. Lupin had taken charge of cooking tonight, singing sweetly as he ran his knife through pork flesh. It’s an old song on his lips, one Goemon hasn’t heard since he was a child.

The sake they drink is sweet and cool, crisp in a way that chases away the muggy evening. Jigen calls it early, and with the alcohol in his system it’s easy for Goemon to make his way to the roof, watch the stars blink slowly down on him. 

He must lose himself in his meditation, because no light greets him when he slips into bed. 

\---------

In the empty dark, he hears the call of a strange bird.

___

Morning light jolts him awake. Sweat sticks on his back, a dull itch to his eyes as he crouches, fingers brushing his sword as he looks through the partition in the glass panels and shoji. He hears nothing, just the sound of wind through the trees. He can hear the groan of wood and the pounding of his heart in his chest.

High winds today. 

He forces himself to breathe, and checks his sword for ominous reflections. He sees nothing, and the sky is a clear blue, dotted with lazy clouds. 

The house is empty as he walks through the halls. 

____

Lupin and Jigen return in the evening. Lupin says they were just off to drop the mask to their contact - didn’t Goemon get their note? Jigen doesn’t say anything to confirm this, just goes to stretch out on the couch. Lupin cooks again that night, the rice white and sticky. 

He sleeps easily that night, listening to Jigen snore. He doesn’t hear Lupin, but that’s fine. He could be up, thinking through their next heist, running through a thousand lighter jobs to reintroduce Jigen after the scar tissue isn’t threatening to split quite so easily. 

\-----

A heat wave leads to them laughing together, all but stripped of their usual clothes as a fan buzzes. They share chilled watermelon, and Jigen interrupts his nap to join them. The call of cicadas rises and falls, the forest breathing. 

Goemon hears no birds, no crickets, no frogs. He hears Lupin laugh, and it still feels warm in his chest. It still feels familiar.

They fall into a routine of sorts, in those hot summer days. Goemon is the first to rise and Jigen is the last. He’ll see Lupin two or three times throughout the day, waving to him as he returns from training, or meditating, or simply fishing. Lupin will go into town early every third day, to refresh their groceries before too many people get to the shops. He’s been doing the majority of the cooking, these days. Mostly japanese, not much of his usual french influence filtering through. He says it’s because of what they sell in town. He says something about the atmosphere making it refreshing to cook like this. He hasn’t asked for help in the kitchen for weeks.

Goemon doesn’t mind the nostalgic taste of what he cooks. It leaves him feeling relaxed, able to just slip away into a dreamless sleep. 

He wakes one morning to realize he’s slept through dawn, Lupin’s bed already empty. Jigen is still on his back, his hat to the side. He has long since grown used to seeing the gunman’s closed eyes.

Goemon watches him. He does not wake until well into the afternoon.

____

He tries to speak to Lupin about it. A moth dances around the lamp hanging above their head, buzzing with electricity installed awkwardly after the creation of the house. It flickers, and Lupin shrugs him off. He doesn’t seem to be worried, whatever it is that’s happening to Jigen. 

\----

The house is empty. Pale moonlight shines down, a sickle cutting through clouds. He hears the calling of a bird as he crosses an empty field, grasses swaying like ocean waves. The house rises in the distance, black against the silver shadows. The forest trembles behind it, like the rustling of wings. Mud sticks between his toes, the colour of zantetsuken’s scabbard drained. He can see a red jacket. He can see bright eyes. He can hear a sound like the groaning of old wood. 

\----

He does not think he is alone. He can hear the low rumble of Jigen’s voice, the static of a radio from the other room. He walks, the dark stain of the wooden floor warm in the light of day. He can feel something move just behind him. He sighs, turning to face Lupin, ready to chide him, to advise him to stop playing around like this. 

He watches the mask drop to the ground, black ribbons pooling in elegant twists below it. 

/?--

The first time he leaves his home, he is young. His sword is just a practice sword, and he is not yet worthy of his name. He keeps his hair up and back, and keeps basic supplies tied to his back. A mirror, salt, dried meat, salve, bandages. He is to leave for a week. He is to follow the river north, until he can no longer, and then he will return. 

The river is wide, and cold, and the eyes of other children follow him as he follows it through town. They do not speak to him. He does not speak to them. 

\-------

He cannot speak to them. Jigen would not move when he had crouched beside him, gripped his shoulders and shook him as gently as he could. Then harder. He watched his head roll across his shoulders, boneless. 

He cannot find Lupin. 

Zantetsuken in hand, he runs. There’s a telephone in the village, resting in the valley. It’s forest green, sheltered in its box beside the single convenience store. He had seen it on the drive in. He had seen it years ago. 

Tall grass hisses around him. 

The road twists out before him, a pale river through the mountains. He sees the river in the valley. He should have recognized it. 

???///

He is small. His hands are clumsy, grip too firm to compensate for the weakness in his arms. His knees are bloody as they knock against rock, sweat dripping down his nose. He was supposed to follow the river. He did not follow the river. There was supposed to be a house up here, there was supposed to be some place between the trees and the hills where he could escape the storm that had been threatening overhead for the last few hours.

He can feel cold rain drop against his neck. 

\----

The road twists and he sees it, black against the silhouette of trees. He can hear the laugh of some strange thing in the trees, chattering like wood against wood, like the clicking of teeth. 

/////

He sets his shoulders. He has seen this pattern before. He knows the movements, the sway and swing of the man’s rifle. He knows when a shot will come. It’s almost boring, how easily he can cut through each shell, the dark metal of the barrel clattering to the ground.

He can almost smell the fear in the guy’s sweat as he brings zantetsuken home. The blood splattering across his cheek hits fresh and warm, sticky before it slides sluggishly down his cheek.

“You’re not human” - the last thing he hears from the dead man’s lips. 

____

“Welcome home, dear.” That high, sweet voice calls from the kitchen as Goemon slides the door open, toes off his sandals. He can hear the hiss of the kettle, the steady clunk of a knife against wood. Jigen is sitting before the table, cigarette burning between his lips. His hat is dipped over his eyes, the television buzzing in the corner. He can see Lupin in the kitchen, can see the long black ribbon trailing down his back, the corner of a wooden mask.

Goemon folds his legs under him to sit at the low table. Zantetsuken lays beside him as he dips his head, respectful of the noise beyond the wall. He does not touch Jigen. He does not see more than the rise and fall of his chest and shoulders as he breathed, slowly. 

“I’m home.”


	2. Chapter 2

It has been a week since she left them. It had been three days since they missed the arranged hand off in America. Fujiko stares out on the flickering lights of a city night, one hand occupied by a glass of red wine. 

Her fingers tighten on the crook of her arm, and she thinks of her boys. Jigen, pale but relaxed after his first cigarette on the other side of Lupin’s patch up job. Lupin, head tipped back and boneless, bloody gloves tossed in the bin beside him. Goemon, staring at the mask they had stolen, an uncommon tenseness in the set of his jaw.

She makes the call.

____

The village was technically not even on the map. Two streets, a single phone box. Mainly old farmers and a handful of bored teenagers. She looks for the house laying low in the hills, she asks the pock-marked kid at the store if she’d seen anyone new in town before her. 

There is no house. There are no extra people in this village. She’s the first person the kid had seen come through in a month. Even then it was just some old biker picking up some smokes, and not the right kind for it to have been Jigen. There’s been nobody buying groceries, or bandaids, or disinfectant that she knew they needed. 

She asks about the house. 

____

She stands, hands on her hips as she surveys the blackened and broken remains of the place she had stood in not even two weeks ago. There’s no heat to the wood, no sign that the fire was recent. She can see moss growing on some of the wood. She can see ants crawling under shattered glass. She can hear birds, and crickets, and frogs. Great.

It’s the right village, she knows that for sure. Same river, same blank-faced farmers, like a thousand other tiny towns they had breezed through. 

She tries to remember. 

She walks in circles, first counter-clockwise, then clockwise. She tries to find a rock with a hole in it to peer through. She bends, looks through her legs to see if the change of angle will show her what she knew must be there. Nothing.

She wishes, for a moment, that Jigen or Goemon were on the outside. She wishes, for a moment, that she had not left them on their own. They both knew enough, trusted enough in those old stories that just didn’t feel relevant to her, not under unfeeling city lights, wads of bills rolled cold in her purse. She tries to think through things they might have mentioned, things common enough to wiggle their way into one of the many horror movies they had seen together, a hint of amusement coming from Goemon as Jigen yelped and spilled popcorn over their collective laps. 

She opens her eyes, digging in her purse as she moves to stand before the burnt stones that once marked the entrance to the house. The mirror clicks in her hand, and she can see the world shift over her shoulder. It twists for a moment, scale shifting and walls rebuilding. She sees it take form, off-white with a blue-black roof. She feels blood rushing in her ears, she hears the cry of something and strange. 

And then, when she turns around, the house is there. 

\-----

A row of neat shoes stands in the entryway, the same make as always but missing the wear and tear. Someone is home, the white noise of their existence far down the hall from her. She bends at the waist, bowing to remove her heels. She keeps them straight with the others, her footfalls silent as she begins to move through the house.

Left, parted screens show the glow of a television. Nothing is playing - she can hear no sound, see no static. On the right, an empty wall. There is no sign of people. She slides past it. 

It looks the same as when she had first visited it - there’s nothing new to the long hallway, the wood floors, the tatami mats. 

\----

She’s the one that finds Goemon. She sees him standing, still as stone, in the yard, staring out into the trees. His hand is on his sword. He does not move when she calls out to him, does not move when the wind hisses through the grass around his feet. She frowns, does not call out to him again. Something tells her to not let the grass touch her feet. Something tells her not to make him look back at her so she could see his face instead of a mop of black hair. 

\-----

Goemon is the one that finds her. His hand closes on her wrist, clamps her mouth close as he pulls her out of the hall. He keeps silent as she bites his hands, kicks his legs. His torso is warm against her back, and he smells like sword oil and cedar. He moves carefully, hand still against her mouth as he shifts so she can see him, can see his clear, dark eyes.

“You should not be here.” His voice is a low scratch. 

“We missed a good payout because of this creepy shit, and I am not missing next week’s job just because Lupin got possessed again.” She hisses once she’s free of his hand, kissing his wrist before he pulls back fully. “And I missed my big, strong Mr. Boyfriend. I sold him a fake - I could have really used your help carrying all my new toys back to the apartment.”

“You must leave before they find out you’re here.” Goemon continues on, eyes closed as he forces the blush on his cheeks from her kiss to recede. “Did you see anyone? Touch anything?”

“Just you, in the field.” Fujiko frowns, keeping her voice low to match his. 

“That was not me.” 

____-_///

Circus lights blink dizzying colours over head, carnival music a giddy thrum as children run circles around their tired parents. She’s a clown this time, a short frilled skirt ballooning out her hips, cartoonish contours on her outfit distorting her figure as she directs people into the hall of mirrors. There’s the thrill of an impending robbery in her veins, that small spike of pre-show adrenaline making it easy to ignore how horrible the grease paint makes her skin feel. 

\--------

She follows behind his shadow, her samurai crouched low as he follows the twists in the hallway, peering around each corner carefully. The television is hissing now, low static like this hissing of a kettle. She listens to it fade out of range behind them, hears it come again before them. The light hits the wall at the same angle, the shoji open the same few inches as they walk by it again. 

She can hear the hiss of the screens as they move behind her.

“Dear, you didn’t tell me we had guests.”

…..

Don’t Look. She hears it whispered from the walls, from the broad back of the man before her. She bows her head, watches delicate steps take over long limbs. 

…...

“A traveler - she will be departing soon.” Goemon speaks to the person whose face is obscured by a lily white mask, red lips turned up in a welcoming smile. 

“Please, at least stay for tea.” The voice is sweet, a soft thing that in pitch and lilt sounds like Lupin. Fujiko feels a curse bubble in her throat. She looks down at Goemon, who gives her the shadow of a nod. 

“Thank you, I don’t mean to impose.” She stands up fully, bowing slightly to the lean frame supporting the mask. The kimono draped over those shoulders is one she recognizes from Goemon’s wardrobe - off-white, blue-black vertical stripes. The obi was something she had helped him pick out, all those many months ago. 

__++=-

Another festival. His hand in hers. The clutter of people and the smell of frying food. There’s the anticipation of fireworks. She can almost smell the gunpowder in the air.

\-----

“Oh, it’s no imposition, dear. Please, this way.” An arm bends, the screen to the left sliding open further. The glow of the television broadcasts gentle scenery - it looks like a nature documentary Fujiko had seen once maybe ten years ago on a boring flight over the atlantic. She had been so young then. 

“Jigen, fetch the tea, would you?” 

She sees the shadow beyond the screen move as they’re guided in, sees the dark line of a suit jacket before it disappears into another room, the hiss of a kettle replacing the sound of static in her head. 

///?/

There’s a time when she’s young, new to the scene. Her leather skirt is slitted, handmade from the scraps of a leather jacket she had stolen off some shit-head drunk. It was oversized, and she had used the sleeves to pull together the skirt, fishnets and heavy boots pulling together her look. Her hair is greasy-crunchy, hair spray giving volume to the unwashed mess. She strips herself of the entire lot, throwing the vest against her fold-out couch, cigarette already smoldering between her lips as she throws her boots across the room. The fishnets are worn through at the heel. Cheap. 

Her enamel kettle whistles as she brushes her teeth, tries to get the taste of men out of her mouth.   
\------

Goemon’s looking at her. She blinks at him, finding herself sitting at the low table, their host across from them as Jigen pours tea. His movements are stiff, slow and weighty. The mug is steaming, cold in her hands as she bows slightly, thanking their host. 

Jigen sits across from them, legs folded neatly below him. He does not speak. His face is shadowed fully by his hat, a mask of his own. 

“What brings you to this humble place? We don’t get many visitors, even in passing.” The white mask speaks to her using one of Lupin’s many voices, head tilted to let the light change it’s features to curiosity. 

“My cousin - he lives in the mountains just beyond here. I had tried to call him from the box in the village to let him know I’d be arriving soon, but it’s out of service. I had heard you might have a phone, but I’m afraid I was mistaken.” The lie is smooth, easy. 

“It’s always so good to visit family, isn’t it? Why, we were wondering when our young man here would be back to visit us.” Lupin’s hand moves, touching Goemon just slightly. “He was away quite some time, you know - I nearly thought he had forgotten us!” 

The laugh is high, artificial. 

“I have not seen Grandmother yet - is she well?” Goemon speaks, the mask’s eyes snapping to him. It’s a purposeful distraction, allowing Fujiko to break her stiff posture to look more carefully at the room, the people before her without making it obvious what she was searching for. 

“She misses you terribly - you know, you always brought such life to her when you were young. Please, allow me to bring you to her.”

\------------

They are in the hallway again. The room is shut beside him, without light. There is no sound of static, there is no sign of life from another room. It is evening now. Goemon stands beside her, and without light to guide them, his hand on her wrist is a welcome presence. Dry, warm, the same callouses as always. 

“What the fuck was that?” Fujiko hisses, following him towards where she knows the porch must be. “Obviously Lupin is possessed and Jigen is… whatever. Bound or cursed or something. But, grandmother? Your grandmother is here?” 

“Yes. And no.” Goemon says, the golden tones of evening light not quite seeming to touch him.

“The spirit of the house calls herself my Grandmother. You must not let her see you.” He says in a measured rush, not stopping to examine the figure still standing in the fields. He’s bringing her towards the front of the building, but the turn they need to make never seems to come. 

“So how did you get out last time?” She slows, feet planted as Goemon turns to look at her, black eyes showing nothing.

“I didn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Where’s Fujiko? Stay tuned


End file.
